


Got A Nice Ring To It

by Decepticonsensual



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:26:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A couple of Skids/Swerve vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Direct Hit

“Aww, you missed!  Keep practicing!”

“I _am_ practicing!” Swerve groans as the last chipper notes of the blaster’s tune fade.

From across the shooting range, Skids glances at him.  “You doing all right there, Swerve?”

“Hmm?  Oh, sure!  Never better!  Just – blasting these ’Cons away!  Pew pew pew!  Pew!”  He makes playful gun-fingers at the targets on the far wall.  “You know me!”

Skids does know him, which is probably why he closes down his own practice programme and goes to join him.  The computer calls Skids’s final stats after him – accuracy 99.87%, response time improved by 1.8%, overall ranking 99.99th percentile of ship’s personnel – which makes Swerve feel _so_ much better.  He holds up My First Blaster disconsolately, and gives it a shake.  “Don’t get me wrong – I really appreciate Brainstorm making this for me.  But why does it have to sound so _happy_ when I miss?”

Skids tries to suppress a smile, and is almost successful.  “Well, let me have a look at your stance.  Maybe I can give you a few pointers?”

Swerve plants his feet and brandishes the blaster threateningly at the wall.  The wall fails to look suitably impressed.

“Ah.”  Skids lets out a long vent.  “I think we may have found your problem.  Your balance is off.  Here, let me show you.”  And then there are warm, powerful arms wrapping around Swerve from behind, and broad hands latching onto his hips, grounding him.  “See?  Make sure you have a solid base, so that you can turn and aim easily.”  Skids’s fingers trail up Swerve’s chest.  “And don’t lean forward so much.”  A light tug pulls him flush against Skids’s frame, with Skids’s hands still cradling him snugly.  “See?  Doesn’t that feel better?”

It certainly does, although for reasons that have nothing to do with marksmanship.  Swerve gulps.  Having those long, clever fingers splayed across his chest is comforting and, at the same time, an unbearable (if unintentional) tease.  He can feel his plating beginning to heat, and prays that Skids doesn’t notice – probably a futile hope, considering that Swerve is basically pressed up against his _panel_.

“Umm… Yeah!  Absolutely!  Much better.  I feel like I’m ready to get back to practicing now, Skids, buddy, pal…”

“Great!”  If Swerve imagined that would end the awkwardness, he’s mistaken.  Skids’s hands cup his own over the blaster, one balancing the weight of it, the other twining with Swerve’s hand on the trigger.  “Let’s try another shot, shall we?”  He helps Swerve level the barrel at the target.  “Remember, don’t yank on the trigger.  Just squeeze it smoothly – it’s almost like you’re caressing it – _yes, good_ …”

Swerve hardly notices when the blaster fires; he’s too distracted by that husky, almost obscene note in Skids’s voice.  It isn’t until he hears the happy trilling of, “Hooray!  You scored a direct hit!” that he registers the smoking hole in the centre of the target.

“Wow.  We did it!”  Swerve waves the blaster above his head.  “Whoooo!  Take that, Overmegasixwave!”

“ _You_ did it, Swerve.  I just gave you a little advice.”  Skids steps back, smiling.  “Want to try one on your own?”

Swerve’s excitement is brought up short when Skids abruptly lets go of him, and he feels a pang of disappointment.  “Yeah.  Sure.  Great.”  He hefts the blaster, but then hesitates.  “Er… Skids?”

“Yeah?”

Swerve licks his lips.  “I’m not sure I’ve quite got it yet.  Would you… help me out again?”

Skids’s smile turns sly.  “Of course.”  He puts his arms around Swerve again, holding the gun steady.  “Just relax.”  Swerve can’t help but squirm a little; that maddening voice is right next to his audial, and he can feel the heat of Skid’s vents on his neck as Skids leans down.  “You want to have a nice, firm grip…”  Swerve’s own vents hitch as Skids’s hand slides off the trigger and over Swerve’s own, before continuing up Swerve’s arm and across his chest.  “And just…”  The hand rakes over Swerve’s panel, making him writhe back against Skids.  “… squeeze.”

“Awww, you missed!  Keep practicing!” rings out as Swerve’s shot goes wild, but he doesn’t care, rounding on Skids and poking him in the chest with the blaster.  

“You were doing that on purpose the whole time!”

Skids is eyeing the blaster nervously.  “Um… yes?  I thought you were enjoying it.  Could we – do you think we could put the gun down while we talk about this?  Please?”

Swerve looks down at his hand, and starts, quickly lowering the blaster.  “Frag!  Sorry!  And I…”  He meets Skids’s optics and gives him a sheepish grin.  “I _was_ enjoying it.  It’s just a lot better knowing you meant it.”

As Skids bends to kiss him, and Swerve sets the blaster aside to throw both arms around Skids’s neck, there is a muffled, “Hooray!” even though no shot has been fired.

Swerve will swear until his dying day that the blaster malfunctioned, and that it was absolutely, positively not him cheering.


	2. After Hours

Swerve yelped.  He’d been wiping down the bar at the end of the night when a hand suddenly closed over his, forcing him to drop the dishcloth, and strong arms lifted him up and set him on the bar.  He was suddenly confronted by a devilish smirk only inches away.

“Miss me?”

“You’re slagging right I did!” Swerve complained.  “Where were you?  You said you’d be here at _mmmmmf.”_ This last was not a measurement of time, strictly speaking – but then, temporal calculations were the last thing on Swerve’s mind, what with Skids’s tongue in his mouth.

For a moment, there was nothing but the wet slide of their tongues against each other, and the heat of Skids’s arms around him.  Swerve moaned, a thin trickle of oral lubricant slipping down over his lower lip.  The sound had Skids gripping him tighter, lapping at his mouth until Swerve was squirming impatiently against him, his legs wrapped around Skids’s waist.

They broke away, both venting hard, and Skids gave him a lopsided smile.  “Sorry.  Rodimus was reworking some course calculations, he wanted to know about the sentient races in a particular sector, I lost track of time…”

Swerve grinned back.  “Well, I think I’ve got a few ideas for how you could make it up to me.”

“Hey, hey!  You can’t be too hard on me when I forget things.”  Skids tapped the side of his head.  “Amnesia, remember?”  Given that Skids had a history of dodging laser blasts, he was able to evade a dishcloth to the head with ease, and tackled Swerve down to the bar, both of them laughing.

Swerve’s laughter choked off abruptly as Skids dipped his head and started slurping at his partner’s collar fairing, then licked up Swerve’s neck to his mouth.  Their kisses were languid, Swerve sucking on Skids’s tongue even as Skids snuck a hand down to his thigh.

“So… am I making it up to you now?”

Swerve ran his thumb over the slick, soft metal of Skids’s lip, then raked a wet trail over his cheek.  “Yeah, yeah, all right.  But I’m just saying, you’ve still got a _lot_ of making up to do.”

“Mmmm.  I think I like the sound of that.”


End file.
